She Saw Him in Paris
by semperfortis
Summary: This will be a collection of (mostly) unrelated drabble-esque writings, perhaps angsty, perhaps funny, maybe even romantic. The only common thread between chapters is that the character(s) involved will be up to you to figure out. Chapter Four: Forget
1. She Saw Him In Paris

**Hello! *waves like an excited octopus* Here's a little something - no characters listed because it's for you to guess. :-)**

13/10/14

* * *

**She Saw Him in Paris**

The first time she saw him in Paris, it was accidental. She had not expected to ever see him again, but now that she had, dormant feelings resurfaced. Hatred. Anger. Betrayal. Love? He stood with two companions, all three decorated with various weapons, swords and pistols, with daggers hidden in the folds of their cloaks no doubt. Unlike his companions, however, he had no leather pauldron on his shoulder.

The second time she saw him in Paris, it was deliberate. She sought him out because she wanted to see what a man like him looked like after he gained the commission of a Musketeer. He was the same. He still looked as if he carried the burden of a thousand souls. Just a pretence, of course. The only difference was the leather pauldron on his shoulder.

She saw him frequently after that, even if she did not want to. Musketeers had the annoying habit of turning up wherever her patron sent her. He never saw her, she made sure of that. She skulked in the shadows, allowing the darkness to consume her, willing herself to leave, to flee. But she was never able to…even now, he drew her in, like a moth to a flame. She tried not to get too close though. She did not want to burn again. He had the ability to stop her heart, figuratively and literally, and she hated him for it. She was convinced she did. Once, she got close (too close - he still wore her locket). It took everything in her to remind herself she hated him. Yes, she hated him.

The last time she saw him in Paris, it was the end. She knew it. He knew it. Yet, neither of them believed it. There can never be any peace for either of them as long as they both live. They will forever be intertwined, no matter how much they fight it. They can never be though, not again, not like before, never like before. And never like something new either - because she has fallen, and he wears a leather pauldron on his shoulder.

Some mistakes can never be corrected.


	2. Broken

_A/N: This is set pre-1x10, maybe even pre Series 1. I wrote this for a fellow fan, Legendary, over at The Heart of Camelot._

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**Broken**

Love was cruel.

It was unexpected. It was tempting. It was euphoric.

But it was also brutal.

It broke the heart into pieces. It pierced the soul so thoroughly it rendered it irreparable. And yet, love was an emotion so strong, that it could never be fought against. Once you had loved, you will always love.

He knew that very well.

He could never forget her. He would never _let_ himself forget her. The woman who had opened his heart to happiness had broken him. He had all but worshipped her. She had become the centre of his very existence. When she entered his life he had questioned how he had been living without her. When she said yes, there was never a man so blessed. When she broke him, there was never a man so cursed.

She betrayed him. Perhaps, he betrayed her too?

No. Love had betrayed them both.

Even after all these years, when he finds himself clutching her locket, he can almost pretend that nothing had changed. That he was still a young Comte with his beautiful Comtesse by his side, together for as long as they both breathed. But then, as he stared at the blue forget-me-nots, they changed from beautiful and serene, to cold and harsh. The stark reality would announce itself so fast it would leave him reeling. And he would remember the blood on the floor...the unmoving body...the torn clothes...the shattered peace...his broken heart.

Now, he lived with the acceptance that she would forever remain in his damaged heart, intertwined with his past, present, and future. He would never be able to let go.

Love was eternal.

It was bitter. It was ruthless. It was unforgiving.

It was cruel.


	3. Of Wars and Letters

_A/N: This was written for fellow Musketeers fan, JJuna, over at The Heart of Camelot. _

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**Of Wars and Letters**

The letters had become her most precious belongings. They were with her at all time so that whenever she had a moment she could read them and imagine he was there with her.

He would come back. She knew that. Of course he would. But every single time a letter arrived, she couldn't help the momentary fear that coursed through her. What if that letter wasn't written by his hand, but by his Captain, or their other friends? What if that letter did not bring her joy?

Surely life wouldn't be so cruel to snatch him away from her when they had finally found happiness?

As a result, she felt unmeasurable relief when she read a new letter from him. Every letter he wrote meant he was alive. It meant they were all okay. It meant she was okay.

Sometimes, she felt selfish. Her heart was only bleeding for her beloved and their friends. The Queen however, not only had to deal with a bruised heart, but was caught between the home of her childhood, and the kingdom that would one day belong to her son. She wondered how any woman could bear such heartache?

She wished he would return soon. They had barely a few moments together before he had to answer the call of duty. But the war had only begun. It was hardly going to come to an end without both Kings being wholly satisfied, and that could be a while yet.

Once she retired for the night, she always returned to the garrison. In spite of having a perfectly suitable room near the Queen's private chambers, she preferred his room - their room - in the garrison. If she stayed still long enough, she could almost feel his presence. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear his laugh.

As was routine, she lit a candle, put on his favourite shirt (it fell past her knees but she loved it), and settled down to re-read his letters. She had them memorised word for word, nonetheless, every reading enveloped her in a sense comfort she couldn't find elsewhere.

She traced the shape of each word, the lines of each letter, as if she was tracing his features - softly, fervently. Every 'I love you' brought a smile to her a face, even as every 'I miss you' made her miss him more.

Oh, how she missed him.

~•~•~

When the letter was handed over to her, she sensed as if something had changed. Could it be news of his...

She tore the letter open, ignoring the tears that filled her eyes as she attempted to read it.

"Oh!" she cried out. He was coming home.

At last.


	4. Forget

**Forget**

She returned to the archway as the sun was melting into the horizon. There was no particular reason for her to come back, yet something was pulling her there.

Everything had been cleared up. No dead bodies, no sign of the earlier battle. The street was bustling like any other street in the Parisian evening. Nothing was out of place.

Except for one thing.

Something was glistening in the dying sunlight.

She quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed it. No, everyone was going about their own business, not concerned for a forgotten object lying on the ground.

No harm in taking a look, she mused as she walked towards the object.

She felt her heart stop for a moment when she realised what it was...he had finally rid himself of her token.

She picked it up and opened it. The blue forget-me-nots brought back memories she did not want. They were memories of a time when everything was simple.

Oh, how things had changed.

Perhaps opening it was not a good idea. She could not let herself drown in those memories again. She did not want to remember. She did not want to feel. She wanted to forget.

She could sell it – it might fetch a good price. No, she should throw it in the Seine. That way, it could never come back to her. Yes, she would be rid of it.

~•~•~

She never did throw it in the river. She could not bring herself to. It remained with her always. A constant reminder of what could have been...of what should have been.

She can never forget. So, she will ensure he never forgets.

The forget-me-nots will fulfil their purpose.


End file.
